


He No Longer Knows How to Feel About Himself

by 30MinuteLoop



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma, sickbay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-17
Updated: 2019-03-17
Packaged: 2019-11-21 21:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18147419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/30MinuteLoop/pseuds/30MinuteLoop
Summary: During "Project Daedalus," Hugh seeks refuge in sickbay with Tracy. Spoilers through S2E9.





	He No Longer Knows How to Feel About Himself

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @Cygfa for the beta read and helpful comments and suggestions!

Red alert sirens sound, blazing into Hugh’s consciousness and throwing him off his deep breathing.

A surge of adrenaline spurs him to his feet and out of his - only his - quarters, but once in the hallway, he has no idea where to go.

_Paul._

Not Paul. Not now.

He _needs_ to move. He needs to be somewhere else.

For the several days he was in sickbay, Tracy was his most frequent companion, aside from Paul. They hadn’t been close when they served together before, but her dry bedside manner had meshed well with his own, and they had gotten along. She had treated him gently, but almost as if he’d returned to normal. Just as Paul had. But somehow that reaction grated more when it came from Paul.

_I am not normal._

Since he’d returned to sickbay for a sleep sedative, Tracy had started to understand the depth of his discomfort. He thinks she has, anyway.

Unlike Paul.

He heads for the turbolift.

An impact disrupts the inertial dampers as he steps inside the lift, sending him against the far wall, catching too much of the force on his left wrist. He grimaces through the sharpness of the pain, then rotates his wrist experimentally. Maybe a sprain. Good thing he’s already on his way to sickbay.

He’s close to his destination when another impact rocks the ship. He sinks to the floor to try to keep himself stable, leaning onto his right shoulder. _What the hell is going on?_ He finds himself hoping he’s not going to die in this turbolift.

The doors slide open and he grabs for the handrail with his good hand, pulling himself to his feet as another jolt tries to send him flying. He gets his legs steady and then rushes down the hall, close to the corridor wall, as the ship shakes repeatedly.

Tracy has her hands full with injuries from the engineering staff by the time he gets there. He waves off inquiries from the other doctor and nurse in the room, who know him even less well than Tracy does, and heads for the drawer with the muscle regenerators.

“Dr. Culber, you are not going to treat yourself,” Tracy barks at him from across the room as he runs the instrument awkwardly over his wrist with his trembling right hand. “Put that away and wait your turn.”

“It’s already done,” he snaps back, putting the regenerator back in its place and shutting the drawer.

He retreats to the rear office to sit somewhere out of the way, collapsing into the rolling chair. He closes his eyes, trying to listen to the sounds of work: the instruments beeping softly, the murmurs of the staff and patients.

This used to be another place that felt like home.

Until _\- hands on his neck - burns on his skin_ \- _running - running - running -_

He shakes his head violently, as if that could dispel the memories, and discovers he’s digging his fingernails into his palms. He tightens and then loosens his grip, letting out a controlled breath. The red alert lights are flashing even behind his closed eyes.

“Hugh, you don’t work here right now. You _cannot_ come in here and just start using the equipment.”

He opens his eyes; Tracy’s standing a few feet in front of him, hands on her hips, head tipped to the side, judging him.

In another life he would have laughed off his own behavior while apologizing. “Don’t you have patients to treat?”

She narrows her eyes at him. “I do. You’re one of them.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”

She raises her eyebrows. “I know I was slow to catch on at first, but don’t take me for a fool. You’re angry, and you’re lonely, and you’re suffering from PTSD.” Seeing him spool up an objection, she holds up her palm. “I don’t need to be a therapist to see that.”

“And I don’t need your diagnosis,” he says, staring at his hands clasped tightly in his lap, contrasting against the black pants. His old white uniforms hang in a corner of his new closet - and that’s all in the past.

“Hugh. Look at me.” He does, reluctantly, but remaining impassive. “I’m worried about you, as your friend. But I’m telling you my clinical observation. You ought to be anywhere but here, with what we’re going through. But we can’t fix that yet. So in the meantime, please stop fighting the truth.”

The red alert ends.

Hugh grimaces, clenching his hands together more tightly.

“See?” she points to the now-dark light panels. “The crisis out here is over, for now. But in there,” she points at his head, “you’re in survival mode constantly.”

He waits, unwilling to form more thoughts.

“You’re right, I do have other patients, and I need to get back to them. I could meet you in the observation lounge in half an hour, red alerts notwithstanding. We could have some tea. And you can tell me what’s going on in your head right now.”

“Hell if I know,” he says, holding back a sob on the final word.

“Or we could just play Go and have a beer.”

“All right,” he relents, getting out of his chair. “I’ll see you there.”

 

The corridors are almost empty on the way to the observation deck.

Around every corner he expects to see Ash.

Or Paul.

Whatever’s going on on the bridge, it has all the on-duty personnel rushing past him with sidelong apologetic glances. Maybe pitying glances.

Tracy’s wrong though. The ship is in crisis mode constantly. And he’s just a passenger on this journey. He can’t even try to defend himself. The threats are beyond his control on every level.

There’s no one on the ship who can help him. He’s not used to feeling so beyond hope.

In the network, when he was spared a few minutes for daydreaming of home, he envisioned this much differently: Waking up in bed with Paul. Rededicating himself to his work. Making CMO, getting a promotion to commander. Getting back into the gym. Getting to know Michael and Tilly better. Going home to see his family.

He finally catches sight of the door numbers. He’s walked right past the observation lounge. He doubles back, and the door slides open at his touch.

Through the windows of the empty, dim room, he sees mines. Red glowing mines, scattered throughout space, glowing ominously. Like the scattering of the JahSepp around him, inescapable, everywhere, ready to attack and tear him apart.

He begins to scratch at his neck and arm as he flees the room.

_Where are we? Why are we here? Why did no one tell me?_

By the time he reenters sickbay, almost on autopilot, he’s vaguely aware he’s escalated into a full panic attack.

It’s just Tracy there with one patient, and she immediately sees the look on his face, moving to intercept him as he’s beelining for the rear office.

“Hugh. The office is occupied. What’s wrong?”

“Why are we _here_?”

“I haven’t received the full mission briefing,” she says evenly.

“Do you know there are _mines_ outside?” he gasps out. His voice is high-pitched and strained, strange. His eyes fix on the corner where - where -

She shakes her head. “I didn’t. I guess that’s what those jolts were about?”

“How are you _not worried_? What the hell is wrong with everyone?”

Her expression softens and she tries to touch his arm; he steps back, out of her reach. “Hugh, this is a medical facility. I need to remain calm.”

“This is fucking ridiculous. I have to go.” He starts to try to maneuver around her. Remembering he can’t go to the office, he turns to the door. But where would he go besides here? It’s his workplace, the place where he died, his hospital, his grieving place, his prison, his refuge.

“I know. This is too much,” she says softly.

He pauses, really seeing her now. Her eyebrows raised, her mouth slightly open. Her hair framing her face. The way she obviously still wants to reach out to comfort him, hands open in front of her, elbows held against her body.

His knees weaken and he sags against the biobed next to him (the one where Paul lay) for support. His heart is flooding, the pain filling his whole body until he can’t hold it, beginning to cry. He lets himself slide to the floor.

“You’re free to go,” he hears Tracy say to the patient. “Can I have you come back for a followup tomorrow?” Footsteps exit the room.

Tracy’s voice comes now from his level. “Hugh, I’m here for you.”

He brings his knees up so he can wrap his arms around them, still sobbing. _And this is what I did when Paul came to save me_. “Leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that, Hugh. I won’t do that.”

After a few minutes, when he starts to breathe around his sobs again, she sets a glass of water on the floor near him. Through swollen eyes, he sees Tracy sitting behind the glass. He picks up the water with his weak, shaky left hand.

“At least water still tastes okay,” he comments after gulping it down.

“Good,” she says neutrally. “Focus on that. More?”

He nods. She gestures to someone, probably a nurse he doesn’t know who’s been watching him break down. Fantastic. More witnesses to his suffering.

Tracy sets another glass in front of him, and he takes it, just holding it, staring into it.

“You’re going to be okay,” she says. “I know it doesn’t feel like it right now. But I know you.”

“You know the old Hugh.”

“I won’t deny, you’re in a different body and you’re experiencing a lot of trauma right now. I imagine everything feels strange to you. But can I tell you what I _see_?”

He nods, watching the water swirl around in his glass as he tilts it.

“I see Hugh Culber, Starfleet officer. Doctor. Friend. He’s in a lot of pain. He’s struggling to reconnect to his regular life after a very long, unusual, isolating traumatic experience. Naturally, everything feels different because of it. But I know he will find a way to reconnect to his old life. He’ll find a way to integrate his trauma. He’ll be able to move forward and live well again someday. He’s not the same. But he’s not wholly different either.”

He bites his lower lip, swallows back more sobs.

“I don’t know you very well now. I didn’t know you before as well as I would have liked. But I appreciated that sassy, warm-hearted, dedicated guy who would always stay late to take care of a patient without a complaint. And that’s still part of you, I think. You still want to be here, somehow. Why else would you come back here so often?”

He smiles slightly and then another sob forces its way out of him, and more tears flow.

“Can I hold your hand, Hugh?”

He laughs through his tears. “Okay,” he says, setting down the water glass on his left. She crawls over to sit on his right, taking his hand. He leans back under the bed to rest against its base.

It’s the first time he’s felt at all grounded since he came back, here on the floor of sickbay, coming down from his panic and rage and sadness into... whatever this is.

Hugh is squeezing Tracy’s hand for dear life. He remembers holding Paul's hand, so many times, the first time, the museum, the last time, the floor of Discovery in the network. He misses the warmth of Paul's hand.

As foreign as everything feels, as strange as it is to cry his eyes out on the floor of sickbay with a colleague and friend in the middle of an unknown mission, it’s even more strange to fall apart without Paul to catch him.

If it were Paul’s fingers intertwined with his, would the ground feel more solid beneath him?


End file.
